Wilhelm
by kayemdi
Summary: Why Sparrow would choose the Love card over the Sacrifice card. The night before going to the Shadow Court, as the end spirals towards her and her family. Previous tragedy/death in the family. F!Sparrow/Robert her husband in the story .


"Why did we have to move here, Mum?" Berenice buried her nose in Sparrow's neck, her black pigtails itching. Sparrow twitched, but tried not to scratch at her neck. "I hate this place. It's too warm and all of my clothes feel damp all the time! And there aren't any other kids."

Sparrow could feel her daughter's strong heartbeat. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. She shifted on the tiny bed, rearranged Berenice in her arms a little, and tried to ignore 'other kids'. "I thought you liked the old pirate-Salty Jack. You seemed to think his stories were pretty cool. Besides, it's not like there were a lot of kids at the old house."

Sparrow could feel Berenice's frown against her throat. She smiled slightly at her seven-year-old daughter's minor petulance, and gently untied the hair ribbons, smoothing out her daughter's dark hair. Berenice made a minor noise, but didn't complain. "Yeah, but there were the chickens and I could go anywhere I wanted. You and Dad won't let me go ANYWHERE here unless you guys are with me."

Sparrow felt the sudden stillness of her daughter, and had to swallow past a hot lump in her throat. "Sweetie, you know that's not just because of us moving to Bloodstone," she said quietly. It was good that the tears were really more like a headache in her eyes, that they could be willed away-but then, it had been a year.

Berenice blurted out, "I'm so sorry, Mum, I didn't mean to-" and she sounded guilty and so, so sad. The nose at Sparrow's throat grew a little wet. The heartbeat sped up.

Sparrow gently said, "No, honey, it's not your fault, shh," and ran her fingers through her daughter's hair. It was so soft, feather-soft. For awhile, it was quiet in their home. The heat was disrupted by salty cool breezes blowing in through the open windows. They could hear the screeching of the gulls, the shouting of the men down by the docks. It all seemed very far away.

Finally, Berenice's hearbeat slowed down again. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. Her breathing was slow and deep. She stayed asleep when Sparrow gently rolled her to the side and pulled the blankets over her. Sparrow crept quietly downstairs and closed the door behind her, locking it. It was really more of a habit, she knew-everyone here in the town was either terrified of her or adored her, and no one would dare cross her. But it was a habit that she had picked up in the most traumatic way, and she'd be damned if she'd stop it now.

Atticus was looking perky as she turned around, his golden head cocked to the side. He nuzzled her palm in greeting, and then stared accusingly at her coat pocket. Smiling slightly, she tossed him a treat, scratched behind his permanantly floppy ear, and then they made their way down to the docks.

It was actually a beautiful day-for once the sun was out, and Sparrow had to squint as she walked down the road towards the waterfront. Several men pushed past her with barrels, and the heat of the day had forced them to go shirtless. Their tattoos were vibrant under sheens of sweat, and their language, their joyful insults, were just as colourful. She caught sight of a young sailor-James-who'd been quite taken with her when she first visited the town almost a year before. He smiled broadly at her-though he was too busy lifting crates to speak with her-and she grinned back. She shouted, "Beer later?" and he nodded, before turning around and going back to work. His sparrow tattoo-high on his shoulder blade, rich jewel tones against his tanned skin-made her smile softer, more fond. Their friendship was true, bolstered by the fact that he swore he was in love with her, and he was waiting only for her husband-Robert-to die and go to Fiddler's Green. Robert, often reading a newspaper when this part of the evening at the tavern came 'round, would absently say, "Sure, sure, let me see when I can fit that into my schedule."

But when the other men would go up to the bar to purchase another round, he'd squeeze her hand under the table, his blue eyes sparkling. In that moment, she'd remember why she chose her bookish husband over the boisterous sailors she loved to joke with. She'd pretend that the one beer she'd had so far had made her drunk, and she'd snuggle close to him on the bench, close enough to smell the smells she associated with her husband of almost eighteen years: the ink he ordered from Samarkand (usually he always had on at least one article of clothing he'd managed to stain with it), the spicy aftershave he wore that she'd purchase for him every year. Close enough the listen to his heartbeat, the deep reassurance of it. Recently he'd picked up the scent of the ocean, as he'd taken to writing while he enjoyed the morning light next to the lighthouse down by the docks.

It was late afternoon by the time she reached that very lighthouse. The ocean was a beautiful green-grey, and Sparrow was suddenly glad that they'd moved out here. She and Robert had agreed it would only be while she conducted what unsavoury Hero businessshe had with Reaver (and she took a moment here to curse him, the damned pirate), but as immoral as Bloodstone was, it was beautiful, in it's grimy way. There was something about the ocean that gave her such a sense of peace, that let her unwind in a way she hadn't been able to do anywhere else.

Not for a year.

She sat down heavily, pulling off her boots and dipping her toes into the pleasantly cool water. Atticus looked at her, and apparently decided they'd be there awhile; he circled three times before dropping beside her, his head on his paws. Together, the hero and her dog stared out at the horizon. They watched it turn from robin's egg blue, to yellow, to a deep gold with hints of purple.

Atticus lifted his head, looking behind them, and decided whoever it was wasn't a threat. He even barked a friendly greeting. Sparrow wasn't entirely surprised to hear a familiar voice quietly say, "Hey, Atticus."

She didn't look over when Robert sat down beside her. He was quiet for awhile, before saying, "Berenice woke up. I asked Marie to babysit her while she eats dinner."

At that, Sparrow turned and looked at her husband with raised eyebrows. "Marie is a-"

"-a lady of ill repute. But she's also a very nice woman with a good heart, and you know if anyone touched Berenice, she'd stab them with one of her stilettoes."

Sparrow thought about that, and had to grudingly concede it. To be honest, she wasn't really in the mood to argue, anyway. She turned back towards the water, letting her eyes unfocus and only take in the colours. She squeezed Robert's hand when he took hers, though. His fingers skipped lightly over the scars on her wrist and the back of her hand.

"For someone who's so used to battle..." he started hesitantly, before continuing quietly, "you seem to have had the fight knocked out of you today." She looked over at him, startled, but he continued to look down at her hand, tracing the scars.

She swallowed dryly, and her hand twitched under his. "Berenice...accidentally brought up Billy." Robert's hand stilled, and then squeezed hers extra tight. He finally looked up at her, and she almost wished he hadn't, because seeing him try not to cry-seeing the only man she believed to be braver than her-try to be brave and failing...for a moment, the blood rushed in her ears and the world tilted alarmingly for her.

And then it was alright, because he was pulling her towards him. Her face was smashed up against his beard and she didn't even care that it itched, not really, she just had to hold him, because that was the only thing that would keep her together in the face of this year-old staggering grief.

There isn't a word deep enough to express the loss of a child. There is no term that can describe what it feels like to see any child-any-on the street, and to have to duck into an alley because you lost control of your mask. It is something that cannot be understood until it is experienced, and Sparrow would never wish it on anyone. This was a secret that she had shared with only her husband, and that she had nightmares about Theresa finding out: that if she had lost Robert and Berenice as well as her sweet Wilhelm, her Billy...she would have turned the world into ruin. She would have become more monstrous than Lucien could imagine. In her soul, she understood Lucien.

And that terrified her.

Robert held her until the shaking stopped. Finally, Sparrow pulled back, and snorted at the sight of a smudge from her mascara on his shirt. She rubbed at her eyes, not really caring if it made her look a fright. She avoided looking at him, though she saw the flash of white as his handkerchief came out, and then was put away.

They leaned against each other as the sky turned purple. The evening sounds made their own particular Bloodstone tune: the waves slapping against the docks; the wooden boats creaking; the badly played music from the pub escaping out into the night air.

"We'll be alright, you know," she said fierecely, suddenly, loudly. Robert looked at her. "Someday."

Their eyes met, and a history of nearly twenty years, half of them in an endless hell of ten years-spent in the Spire and at home, worrying-a decade of uncertainty, passed between them. This most recent tragedy was merely the worst, but it had somehow cemented their tiny battered family. They knew who they were now, and in the fullness of time, they'd be okay again. Sadder, but all the more grateful for their bright-eyed mischievious daughter-a daughter who knew better now, who would never make the mistakes that had taken her brother from them. A smart, capable, loving girl.

Robert smiled at her, and a bit of happiness sparked up in his eyes. "Of course." He started to get up, putting his boots back on. She suddenly realized how cold it was outside, and gratefully took his hand to rise. She grimaced at the sudden soreness in her body. Robert laughed, threw an arm around her shoulder, and they started heading towards the waterfront.

"So, my old woman," he murmured, "when will you head out towards the Shadow Court?" They passed under the orange light of the blacksmith's.

Sparrow rolled her eyes. "Soon," she answered, feeling a slight tinge of fear. She had forgotten about her upcoming trip to Wraithmarsh; though she no longer was really terrified of many adventures any more, Wraithmarsh could always bring up unease in her. "I'm a little nervous," she admitted.

Robert stopped, and kissed her forehead gently. "What, a great hero like you?" He hugged her close, and their heartbeats were nearly synced. She smiled."What does a hero like you have to be afraid of?"

She swallowed past her fear, and they headed home, Atticus chasing behind them.


End file.
